And… And… And is a tidy new coming-of-age story by Isla Cowan that projects the existential anxieties of the climate crisis through the more tangible lens of two teenage best friends facing the end of high school-- or life as they know it. Teenagers, however, are not known for tidiness. And neither is finality. So why should the play be? 

 

Cassie (Caroline McKeown) and Claire (Tiana Milne-Wilson) spend their weekends picking plastic litter from their local beach. Volunteering looks good on Cassie’s college applications, and the excuse to hang around and eat chips with her busy best friend is enough for Claire. Cassie, however, grows disturbed by the Sisphean task. The plastic doesn’t just accumulate; it’s everywhere. It’s in the sand, in her skin, in the water, blood, and air. It’s in their bedrooms, school, and clothes smartly communicated by Katie Innes’ interchangeable set and costumes. And when the girls look out toward the horizon where their ships are meant to come in-- Cassie’s degree in environmental law and Claire’s bohemia in New York-- they see a blaze instead. It’s the plastic plant Ikos. The enemy. Rage.

 

Each morning, Groundhog Day news cycles concerning biblical levels of catastrophe-- flooding, fires, and drought-- bombard the girls on TikTok, Instagram, BBC and Sky News. It dulls Claire’s senses, washing over her as she hits snooze. Cassie, however, feels everything. Her deep sense of personal responsibility for the fate of the world descends into Lady Macbethean levels of obsessive guilt. She’s not showering; not sleeping; no longer eating Greggs sausage rolls. Her only focus is on what she can do now, right now, to stop Ikos. That is, plan a rally, and with as many celebrities as possible. Planning is the antithesis of presence though. One cannot have a macro-view of the present and still be engaged in it. Planning is also a luxury Claire cannot afford. Cassie’s view at the top of Maslow’s pyramid, though suffocating and dizzying, is still a privilege. Unsure how to wield it, she whips herself and others by virtue signaling, unconscious of the immediate threat Claire faces at home. Claire’s mother is ill with cancer and unable to work. Claire must get a job or face eviction. And only Ikos will hire her. 

 

McKeown and Milne-Wilson are absorbing and uninhibited as friends torn apart by purpose and responsibility. When Cassie learns of Claire’s betrayal, she is quick and ruthless to diminish and shame her friend’s desperation, arguing that one person’s life cannot mean more than the life of the planet. Cassie, of course, leads by example. Now a fanatic husk in hemp clothes, she uses her own blood as paint for poster signs. Both a battle cry and cry for help, Cassie's martyrdom is more pathetic than tragic. Only Claire, whose self-preservation has been demonized, has the capacity to save her now.

 

The play suffers too when it takes on the macro-view. The attempt to bring the audience in during the fourth wall break of Cassie’s rally meltdown removes us from the action and denies us of the present. The script's burden becomes not only how to end this play, but how any play measures up to the life of the planet. It is an admission of insecurity in the play's results, its future. The play derives its sense of self from its longevity, philosophical success eclipsing the soul beneath Cassie and Claire's life situations.

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Like Cassie, the play misunderstands salvation as a destination. Its anticipated duty to forge closure and meaning out of uncertainty is what ironically leaves it feeling unfinished and unsatisfactory. Delivering closure should not be confused with delivering hope. In fact, hope, does not exist in closure. Like fear, hope requires time, time, and more time. Always more time. Something to look forward to that has not yet been revealed. Which can also morph into something to fear. This is the trouble with hope and fear; too much future, and we are too far gone.

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And… And… And has a limited run at the Traverse Theater October 6 & 7, and tours Edinburgh schools until the end of the month. 

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